


Lore of Legends - Season 1: Motherless

by CeruleanOak



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Demacia, Lore of Legends, Mt. Targon, Piltover, Shurima, Voodoo Lands, Zaun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanOak/pseuds/CeruleanOak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are stories untold in the history of Valoran.  You know the faces of the League of Legends.  Come and see what rests inside their hearts and minds.  Come and see what makes a champion.  The Institute of War is no more and the vault has been thrown open.  Now there are no more secrets.  Now there are only legends waiting to be put to page...</p><p>SEASON 1: Motherless</p><p>This first season focuses on three theaters of conflict: Shurima, Rakkor, & Mageborn.  Shurima is a desert nation that was destroyed thousands of years ago, while warrior nation of Rakkor to the north is near the peak of its power, but a devastating attack on the Sun Temple leaves them leaderless and in conflict with the nation of Demacia.  Meanwhile various powerful magic users cross paths on a journey where they discover a terrible power that has long remained dormant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cassiopeia

"The sands of Shurima are hungry. Given the chance, they will swallow you whole."

The idle words of the sell-sword returned every so often to the mind of the daughter of Marcus Du Couteau. Would that her father could see for himself the unwashed hell that he had bidden her enter. Her, a daughter to Noxus's most powerful and accomplished general, mistress to the Court of Power, the "Emerald Lips" of Noxus...

Every man north of the Barrier knew her by sight. She was spoken of just as much in the glass-wall ballrooms of Noxus as they did in the seedy taverns in Bilgewater. When Cassiopeia Du Couteau entered a room, the eyes of men and women alike moved. They would see her fine silk dresses fashioned with jewels, gifts from the wealthy dignitaries she had courted, hair arranged in fashions three seasons ahead of the hopeless present, her gate oozing with confidence, accomplishment, and intention, most of all power. The room was hers the moment she entered. They were all hers to have as she pleased...

But not these men. These men were Sivir's.

Cassiopeia never got the looks she wanted from them. Whenever she tested their desire, she saw only distrust in their hooded eyes, and lust. Lust she was accustomed to dealing with. The gods had graced her with a body that made men boil with desire and women fume with jealousy. But her body was all these men saw. They jibed at her in the tongue of the sands and covered her with their eyes, speaking softly at her as if she were some cobra that could be coaxed into dancing. They didn't know who they were gawking at, ignorant of what power she commanded. They didn't care. To them, she was a woman only, a fool for following them into the desert with her riches and her finery, and her contract.

Yet they did not see their woman leader this way. They feared her as they would any commander.

The Battle Mistress rode her mount at the front of the pack, first to disappear over the crest of every white dune. She was wrapped in the clothes of the desert, roughspun camelskin robes that fluttered in the wind, white and red kuffiyeh covering her auburn hair and sun-browned skin, undyed scarf hiding all but her eyes. A gigantic metal Chakram in the shape of a cross lay across her back, so large that it hung wide across the horse and above her head. The rest of the troupe rode horses as well, while Cassiopeia followed them on camelback. Horses were a bandit's mount, less fit for the unrelenting desert, but they were faster, better suited for an ambush, or an escape.

These seventeen men were the mercenaries Sivir commanded, The Sand Scorpions, honorless sell-swords who would just as soon kill their brother as fight beside them. What mattered to them was profit, not honor, or even power.

"Your paper means nothing to me," Sivir had said when they met. "Show me the gold."

Her father had been wise to supply Cassiopeia with the chests. They required an extra camel to carry, but without them there would have been no bargain. Sivir's hungry eyes had examined the chest of silks, the chest of spices and the chest of Noxian gold. On the third chest she had lingered longer. Perhaps she had forgotten the sight of it, forgotten how well Noxus had paid her in the past. Cassiopeia had to keep herself from smiling then. What a fool these snakes of the desert were.

She pitied them, Sivir most of all. What good was all that money without investment? What good was a cave filled with gold and jewels? They all reminded her of the pirates of Bilgewater, lonely men who buried their spoils in the dirt, filthy outlaws whose only ambition were to be spoken of in stories and songs. Glory was a man's pleasure, among others, one of Cassiopeia's favorite tools for turning a man's ear to her will.

But talk of glory was only words here. She wouldn't waste her breath on these mongrels any more. They weren't like pirates after all. She had discovered that last night, when she'd attempted to pull Sivir's second in command away from the fire. She had found a palm tree in the dark, surrounded by sand that was cool to the touch, night air moving the branches just enough to hide their words. Jhaggo had listened to her silky praise of his bravery and watched her play with the jewels embedded in his knuckles. She'd even stooped to speak of his physical appearance, pretending to be attracted to his dark skin and curly beard, even the salty smell of his skin. It had all been lies through her teeth, but it should have been enough to bring any man to her neck. Yet, to Cassiopeia's frustration, Rafik made no such move. His eyes were cold and unwanting. She could not forget the way his lips had curled before he stood and returned to the fire, to the singing and the warmth of his companions. She had sat there in the cold, burning with fury, raking the sand from between her skin and clothes.

These men could not care what she thought of them. Sivir was no exception. She spoke of gold as if it were all that mattered in the world, and it was the way she said the words, as if she knew better than her how it was. How often the thought occurred to her to wrap her fingers around this bandit's throat!

The nights were frigid cold, near as cold as the Freljord, while the heat was excruciating by day. Now it was the heat of the mid-day sun. When in the past they would have stopped to rest, Sivir had not stopped. Cassiopeia wetted her lips and tasted the salt of her sweat, swearing under her breath at the discomfort of the sand and the heat, the pain of riding camelback day after day, the bad company most of all.

"All this I do for you, father," Cassiopeia muttered, words lost in the wind, carried over miles of sand, heard by no one.

Then she heard a clamor in front of her. The Sand Scorpions were turning their horses, causing the metal of their sabers to bang against their saddles. Sivir had turned back from the top of the dune and was speaking the tongue of the sands to her men.

Cassiopeia hit the neck of her camel with the reigns and kicked, pulling up beside Sivir, who seemed for a moment to have forgotten her when she saw her coming alongside. Then she smiled, her thin lips stretching wider than Cassiopeia had yet seen.

"A caravan," she said simply, pulling off her kuffiyeh and letting it fall to the sand, revealing the jade jewel that rested in the bronze circlet she wore. Her fiery auburn hair fell plainly upon her shoulders. Cassiopeia glanced at the Battle Mistress's neckline, where under the robes she knew bronze battle armor was hidden.

"Now?" Cassiopeia feigned a mocking smile, knowing full well that it would not sway the woman, but she meant to make her disapproval known. She had bought them. In truth, they were her men more than Sivir's, for now. "I need every man. If any of them should fall to the sand, their gold will fall back into my hands."

The woman only laughed.

"You're hungry, snake, and so are we. My men hunger for battle just now, more than for your country's blood money."

Cassiopeia grimaced. She dare insult me and my nation to my face? "I can see that only gold pumps through your veins, Sivir."

Sivir's white gelding trotted restlessly in place as its brothers raced past it, galloping over the bloodlust cries of the Sand Scorpions.

"Our blood is the same, you and the men of that caravan too," she replied curtly. "Perhaps some of it is gonna spill before this is all through..."

Was that a threat? Only one of us would spill the other's blood. Cassiopeia knew that much. She wanted to wipe that smile off this woman's baseborn face, but now was not the right time. That time would come...

Sivir pulled back on the reigns in response to Cassiopeia's disquieting silence. The horse reared slightly in the sand.

"The gold we take today will be far sweeter than the gold of your pretty chests. Today we take what was not meant to be taken, a better prize than yours."

With that, she galloped after her men, the giant Chakram bouncing on her back, hair blowing through it.

Cassiopeia watched them go and spoke as though the bandit was still in front of her.

"Fool. The greatest prizes are not made of gold at all."


	2. Ezreal

Ezreal woke in the dark of the morning, as usual, head full of dreams.

He lay on his back, heart racing, flinching slightly at the memory of the fall. Then he remembered that, not long before, he hadn't been in a cave at all. It was a palace, and he was dressed in finery. And before that, hadn't he been studying with Miles... _Yeah, it had all been a dream._

The sheets were tangled. He threw them aside with a restless sigh and sat up on the edge of the bed, wearing a loose, long-sleeved white shirt and cargo pants. He reaked of unwashed sweat from yesterday. He yawned and grinned in the dark, glimpsing the slight, dark colors of the window pane. No sign of sun.

Ezreal clicked the bedside lamp switch futilely. _Of course, no power._ He grumbled wordlessly and trudged across the room, tripping on whatever objects he'd left there yesterday. He kicked the plastic switch on top of the generator with the back of his bare heel. The metal monster pulsed and hummed, knocking slightly against the floor as the motor chugged away. The string of bulbs along the ceiling came to life slowly, filling the wooden room with pale yellow light, revealing the mess of it all, wires all over the ceiling, clothes and metal about the floor.

Noises of protest came almost immediately from below, followed quickly by pounding on the wood. Outside the window, a high-pitched yordle voice swore angrily. Ezreal laughed and sat at the desk, deaf to the noise of the generator.

He tried to forget the rest and remember the cave. He grabbed a graphite pen and drew madly at the parchment. The sleep caking his eyes occasionally dropped on the paper and he wiped it away. His hands smeared the graphite as he moved around the map. _There had been a patch of iron ore here. That's where the goblin nest was._ He had ran past that to the circular cavern that was all waterfall. And within that, the leviathan guarding its eggs...

At some point, the madness of dream wore off, and he realized how ridiculous this all was.

"There's no cave," he told himself aloud. He scratched his shaggy, blonde hair, picked up the parchment and pushed the rolling chair over to the generator, kicking it offline.

"THANK YOU!" someone outside yelled in the immediate quiet. 

Ezreal glanced at the analog clock, now visible above the mantle in the morning light, counted down the seconds, and pointed upwards. Right on cue, Antoine's daily vocal exercises had begun. A few floors up, a deep vibrato howled a cacophony over the chill morning of Piltover.

"ARGH!" the same voice yelled in frustration from outside.

Some things hadn't changed. Ezreal laughed and pushed the multi-colored paned window open. Antoine's voice grew in volume, and now he could hear the distant sounds of mechanical happenings hundreds of feet below.

"Morning, Piltover!" he yelled downwards, unperturbed by the altitude as he leaned over the expanse. A rank stench greeted him, curling his nose. The city had morning breath. The hot swamp gas that pumped beneath the city, powering streetlights and vehicles alike, was temperamental. You never knew what flavor you would get from it. Ezreal quickly shut the window again. Antoine was moving on to scales, now.

"La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la!"

Thinking of caves again, Ezreal stretched his way over to the bookshelf that extended from floor to ceiling, grabbing three books. He was still holding the hand-drawn map between his fingers. He sprawled the objects on the table.

Morning passed, and Ezreal didn't notice that he was hungry. He was too engaged in the paragraphs describing the Great Barrier pathways.

 _Too treacherous,_ he decided.

He returned the books and replaced them with a fistful of tall parchments stuffed in a wicker basket. Ezreal unfurled the nautical charts, standing above the table. He had knocked over an almost-empty cup, but he hadn't noticed it dribbling juice onto the floorboards just shy of his feet.

 _Yeah,_ he thought, moving his finger over the shores. _That might work._

He left it all there and moved quickly into the washroom. The fire was in him again.

"Ezreal, where are you going?" his father's voice asked him.

"I have to go, dad," he muttered almost silently, turning on the faucet, which sputtered to life, noise of pressure pumping through the thin wall. 

"But Ezreal, your internship..."

"Change of plans, old man," Ezreal smiled, looking up at the mirror. He splashed cold water over his face, dripping over his cheeks marked with the triangle tattoos that were so popular with Piltover mages, parallel with his blue eyes. Ezreal barely saw himself, distracted by the many photographs taped to the sides of the glass. The glow caves of Kalamanda... the massive Avarosa guardian... the chained mountain Ishizuchi in Ionia...

He grabbed the one he wanted. The massive pillars that jutted out of the yellow waves made his eyes shimmer. The lands where gods walked the earth... Far below the waves, he knew there were real caves waiting for him. He pocketed the image.

As he returned to the bedroom, he noticed that Antoine's voice had gone, yet the noise of the city was louder now. A zeppelin was floating above the pinnacles of the skyscrapers, advertising Malachi Records. Gopher bots were chugging through the air, spewing steam as they rose and fell. Ezreal lurched out the window, searching longingly for a breakfast bot. He glanced at the sun through the fog of the city's pollution and realized that it was long past breakfast.

His foot caught on one of the empty metal cages by the window. They were all over the room: circular bird cages, square rodent cages, glass terrariums and aquariums. Looking around the room, Ezreal realized he was alone. He had only been back now... how many days? He had been spending time in the game floors, dance taverns, a couple of his favorite museums... This was the first time he'd really taken a look at the place. It was a dump. The rest of his father's studio was empty too, he knew.

Who knew where the professor was now. Ezreal imagined his weary, bearded face, body encumbered by bags of inventions and volumes of books, completely unequipped for the journey. The Bewildered Academic, they called him. Last Ezreal had heard the college had given his old man permission to travel north. 

And he was going south. This didn't feel like home anymore. He picked up one of the cages. 'Chipper', he recalled. He'd let his pet rat free, same as his other pets, years ago when he took that first ship out of harbor. Ionia had seemed so exotic then... But it had only been a short trip by sea. This voyage would take weeks, and it may be near a year before he got back here again. It reminded him of when he'd stowed away on a ship to Kumungu, a journey that nearly cost him his life more than once. What an adventure. He'd never felt more alive then...

He wouldn't say he was sorry to leave so soon, he considered while picking up his bags, conveniently packed (as they had yet to be unpacked). This city, for all its wonders, just didn't feel real anymore. He remembered Diamanda's Dance Pit, raving in the strobe lights, hair swinging with sweat, lost in the music, trying to feel the blood pumping in his veins... His arms and legs had swung and moved to the will of his hips and shoulders, bent to the call of the bass. He couldn't hear the music now. All he could hear was the sea, waves clapping against the sides of a ship, salty air throwing his hair around, sea birds crying, wooden planks squealing...

Ezreal's ears pounded as he marched through the hallway of peeling wallpaper, carrying only that which he needed: clothes, money, desire. His feet tapped as he waiting for the elevator. Slow. Why wait? He ran down the stairs, sliding down rails, smiling uncontrollably, away from the room, away from home.


	3. Ryze

He ran the red-brown earth between his hand and let it blow in the wind. The flakes of sunburnt sediment fell briefly before becoming caught in the northbound gusts that blew between the red rock walls of Tungun Pass. This air smelt of salt and sulfur, stale and lifeless. An expected but discouraging omen. The fluttering stream of dirt caught on a thermal and shot upwards, dispersing until it was no longer a visible form. Ryze protected his pupil-less eyes from the sun with his pale-blue, tattooed hand.

This place was bereft of magic. It was the veil between the north and the south, between the civilized and the wild. There was nothing but rock here, pressing ever upwards over eons, splitting Valoran itself in twain. Was it the elevation that left The Great Barrier without mana, or the absence of trees? Ryze traced the purplish thorn tattoo on the back of his right hand with his finger. He felt lost without the reassurance of natural power beneath his feet. It was as if he were suspended in air high above the world, like he might at any time plummet to his doom.

He turned his head to glimpse the distant peak of Mt. Targon, home of the Rakkor and the Solari. This was the closest he had ever been to the mountain, at least since his last journey through Mogron Pass. That was so long ago, it seemed, but it could not have been. The girl was still just as much a girl as before. Life had been full since, and time must have slowed for them. Now they were returning, much sooner than he could have anticipated, but it was only right for him to bring her back... 

He listened to the loud nothing that howled past him. There was no sign of imminent danger nearby, other than the elements, of course, but he knew that Mogron was thick with the outcasts of Targon, somewhere, those that had fled or been exiled, criminals, bandits, the depraved, the mad... He was a fool to take this road without an escort, but...

He climbed back down to the main road, careful to not tear the giant scroll on his back against the rock. Any damage to the parchment could loose a dangerous force of magical energy, enough to endanger the child. He had considered only briefly whether or not to leave the scroll behind in Kaladoun. Of course, he could not. It would be madness to part with it, even to have it locked away. Its power was too great, a danger to all life on Runeterra. There was no one to entrust its safe-keeping to... No one but himself.

"Mr. Ryze?" the young girl called out from the back of her burro. "How much longer?"

"Much longer," his scratchy voice replied, returning her wide-eyed gaze with an unreadable glower. He turned his head to dodge yet another attempt by her to grab his twisted goattee as he fumbled through her saddlebag.

"Can I hold Tibbers?" Annie asked for the umpteenth time.

Ryze pulled out the stuffed bear with unease. It was ragged, fur ruined by dried tears. He considered its buttoned eyes briefly. He believed the thing to be filled with dark magic that made him tremble to consider. Dark magic from a dark child... He handed it to her.

"He doesn't like being kept in the bag," she insisted, hugging the toy. "He wants to play..."

"Well, there's no time for games." He pulled out the compass to ensure that it was not disrupted. He clutched it satisfactorily. "Come on, Annie. Off the burro."

He led both the mounts up the unsteady sediment incline while the girl watched from below, clutching Tibbers to her chest.

"Why are we going up there?"

Ryze kept his glowing eyes to the task as he spoke, gruff with focus. "Mogron leads to Shurima. We're not going to Shurima."

"What's Shurima?" she asked innocently, raising her voice above the wind.

Ryze compensated with the wind in turn. "An empire... buried by the sand, but that's a long story. We don't have time for stories. No, wait!"

"I like your stories," she said absentmindedly, climbing up after him. She struggled without complaint, perfectly content to attempt the climb alone. She wore bright, girlish clothes under the brown travel cloak. Atop her red hear was a pink headband with fake ears.

"I said to wait down there, didn't I?"

Ryze left the burros where they were, growling through his facial hair. His large, leather-wrapped boots kicked up weakened rock as stopped alongside Annie to help her up the incline.

"Up, up, up, the mountain..." she sung to herself and hummed playfully..

"Up, up, up..." Ryze sighed, rubbing his warm bare back. He preferred to travel shirtless, exposing as many of his runic tattoos as possible. His whole skin had turned a pale shade of blue as the magic had become a part of him, and the thorn-like tattoos that covered him had turned dark, occasionally glowing magenta with mana. The ink had still been fresh under his skin last he'd travelled this road.

The burros had remained faithfully complacent where he'd left them on the incline. It was easier to keep them still than to move them again, and they tugged stubbornly against the reigns as he led them over a big lip of rock.

"This is Tungun Pass," he explained once they'd reached level ground at the mouth of the gorge. The wind that blew through it caused his scroll to quiver again. He lifted the girl back onto her mount.

"Tun-gun... Heehee! Is that where my mommy and daddy are?"

"Not quite, my girl..." Ryze couldn't help but smile. She was restless, but that was to be expected. She had been too young to remember. To be honest, Ryze had not thought he would see the Hastur's again...

As they were about to pass through the rock gateway, a commotion caused the burros to stir. The magic runes on the back of Ryze's hand began to glow. He turned his white eyes upward yet again, to the sun, then to the mountain where some said all life on Runeterra had begun.

A flash of sunlight? An explosion? At this distance, it was impossible to say, at least for any man who saw the world by light.

"Oh..." Annie reacted. She had turned all the way around in her saddle and was sitting backwards. Her burro was tied to Ryze's and had stopped when it's brother had. She leaned over and kissed Tibbers on the head. "Tibbers says that he smells burning."

More than burning, Ryze feared. For the first time, he felt true magical power in this desolate land. He saw it shining like a beacon from the peak of Mt. Targon with eyes that saw the world in mana, not light. In that moment, he remembered the words of the seer Wuktamba spoken to him as he had clutched the babe in his arms.

_The child is cursed! Be rid of her, for she is altogether evil. Any cause you take to protect her will only lead to your own destruction._

He slapped the reigns to urge the burro onward, through the pass and away from what he had seen.

"Let's go," he insisted.


	4. Leona

The golden sword spun briefly upright over the ground as its tip struck the marble floor. The crimson streak of burnt metal shimmered across the blade in the sunlight that was pouring in through the broken roof. The clamor of its impact echoed across the hall. Its fanned quillion, forged into four points to represent the flare of the sun's light, turned steadily, as if in slow motion, while the sword fell hiltward to the stone. The hollow, circular body of the cutaway struck flat against the marble, producing a sorrowful clang. The beautiful golden sword vibrated and hummed between each knock before it settled into a terrible silence.

The greaved hand that had dropped it shook metallically, fingers held in a half-grip, trembling from sudden weakness...

Six years ago, she had been a youth. This hall had been her first memory of the Sun Temple.

Leona looked upon the wise, stiff faces of her masters: the Solari. Reverent in worship of the power of the sun, they had stood like monoliths over her, both welcoming and frightening. Her skin had felt the warmth of the sun that poured in through the many windows and open roofs. Though it stood on the peak of the tallest mountain in all of Valoran, the Sun Temple let no wind penetrate its halls while the light and warmth of the glorious sun was welcome. No candle or torch was lit by day.

Sitting high above her with the other council members, Councilman Vargo had resided over the proceedings of her initiation in stead of Vizier Devotio, pro tempore. His eyes, she remembered them specifically, had been distant and without emotion as he said the words welcoming her to their temple, yet he had struck her as a man worth fearing. More than the others, Vargo made a special point to acknowledge her as an acolyte. His words and looks betrayed calculation, like cold iron. All of the Solari had a fire to them, some bold, some brave, some bright... If there was one aspect of the sun that had been gifted to Vargo, it was the consuming flame. He had burned her Rakkor identity in a small brazier of coals, told her to forget her parents, abandon the warrior's way and come into the light.

And she did.

Leona stood tall above her companions, fiery auburn hair blazing under the golden crown granted to her as the Radiant Dawn. She had been an acolyte for only a year before they honored her with the title, eager to parade her as a symbol of the "New Dawn" her coming foretold. It was necessary, of course, to ensure that she had learned to devote herself in worship to the sun, to burn away weakness and doubt. And she was always with escort whenever she left her chambers, ever their champion.

_I vow to protect the weak, the needy, the broken, and the lost._

Upon her left arm, she wielded a body-length shield of gold and crimson, crested by the pointed Mark of the Solari, a golden sun of many rays. The shield had belonged to the first Solari, a man of legend who had harnessed the power of the sun itself to defeat his enemies. He came to Mt. Targon to establish this order, to devote himself and his people to the source of his might. The story was old and legendary, but the shield was real and polished.

_I will stand firm in the darkness of night, where there is no light but that which we bear against it._

The armor was pure gold, soft and brilliant, yet no dent could be found on it. Whether that was from lack of use or strength of design one could not say. The crown was two suns on each side of her head, the armor pieces formed to her body, the girdle a fountain of gold that guarded her legs like a dress. Her mail was crimson scale of steel, flexible and light, which was good since she was expected to wear it wherever she went.

_I will stave off those that would oppose or destroy us. Until my own light fades I will stand and guard those who would stand in this most glorious light of the sun._

The Sword of Solari. She looked at it lying on the ground where she'd dropped it, surrounded by rubble and pools of blood. Leona turned her brown eyes about the brilliant room that had once inspired her, now decimated, covered in bodies. She recognized every still, lifeless face, every one of them her friend. She was their hope, their light...

"Who did this?" she asked aloud desperately, her deep voice echoing.

No one answered. She felt to her knees and cried, curls tangled in her crown.

"I wasn't here... to protect them."

Sunlight was all around her. Her skin felt warmth, but all she could feel inside was the chill of sorrow.

She leaned on the shield, letting her cheek rest on the cool gold surface, and glanced up at the blue.

"What was I brought here for?" she asked the sky.

A distant cough replied, causing Leona to stir violently. She rose, eyes wide, retrieving the sword. She moved recklessly toward the sound, eager to offer salvation.

An old, scratched face was crawling out on his belly from under a boulder. His regal robes were torn, yet his stoic dignity remained.

"Councilman Vargo!" she recognized him.

The man rolled over and collapsed on his back as she approached, then looked up at her. His lungs were wheezing, and his voice sounded dry. His lip was cut and bleeding.

"Leona..."

"Are you alright?" She let the sword go again and clutched both of her hands in his. She could not feel his warmth through the greaves.

"I am..." he looked down at himself. "I will live."

His voice was grim and full of anger. "She took the Vizier..."

"Who?" Leona demanded. It was unlike her. Vargo's eyes widened in reaction to her tightened grip.

"...to show him."

"WHO DID THIS?" she yelled, eyes set to his, intense.

_I vow to protect the weak, the needy, the broken, and the lost._

"The heretic," he said simply, his voice quieting. "The girl, Diana."

Leona went quiet. The name was only mildly familiar. Then she put a face to the name, a pale face with white-blonde hair, quiet eyes, a restless enigma.

"The acolyte?"

"No acolyte. She was of the Iron Solari once, until the Vizier demoted her due to insubordination."

Vargo let his head hang. His back arched in a thick cough. Dust blew across the floor.

Leona rested back onto her calves, partly sitting on her steel train. Vargo lifted his head and grabbed Leona's elbow.

"She will kill him, Leona."

Leona's eyes braced. She could feel the sun at her back as she rose to her feet.

"No, she won't."


	5. Garen

Garen breathed in deep the crisp morning air that filled the western yard. His lungs pressed against his bulky armor as he stared at the fluid motion of the recruits' morning exercises. His eyes fixated on one of the swords glimmering in the daylight, remembering fondly the firm friendships he had formed on that grass. Through sweat and fire it had been him holding that sword, first on the yard, then on the battlefield, then in the hall of the king. He gazed upon their young faces, some hardened, some exhausted, some even appeared frustrated. His observation lingered on the ones with a clear resolve. He could see it in the way they moved, and then in their eyes. These were the sons of Demacia, to whom the effort meant more than what they were taught.

Some of the boys that took notice of him stirred, some faltered. One brown-haired boy nearly lost his grip on his sword, catching it just before it fell to the manicured grass. Heathcliff pretended not to notice the attention the gigantic knight garnered, continuing to bark his commands across the cold air, breath puffing out misty bursts. 

Garen could not help himself. He did not want to interrupt, but his heart controlled his lips far more often than his head. He approached Heathcliff and drew nearer the boys.

"Well swung!" he called out to a broad-shouldered boy with dark skin and curly black hair. "You see that, sergeant? No Noxian shield could resist a blow of such force."

He laughed heartily and smiled at the boy, who couldn't help but grin back from the attention, his stance growing a little broader. 

"Good morning, captain," Heathcliff acknowledged, keeping his focus on the yard.

"Fine lads. All fine lads."

"Don't encourage them," he muttered. "I don't want soft recruits."

Garen clapped his hand on Heathcliff's shoulder and shook it. "Acknowledge excellence, Heathcliff. Keep up the good work!"

The sergeant responded with dutiful silence, continuing the exercise. Garen strode off, past the mess hall, towards the entrance of the female barracks.

There he waited stoically beneath the vaulted stone arches that had stood for three-hundred years and showed nary a sign of decay. He always admired raw stonemasonry. The granite's strength was bare and visible without the trappings of decoration. 

Garen's eyes fell to the colored enamel that coated his armor: blue, white and gold. He certainly took pride in the colors of his nation and his people. But in battle the enamel would always chip off and the beauty of the armor would be ruined. He counted the imperfections. He might have preferred his armor to be of naked and polished steel. Such armor would shimmer in the daylight and could not be so easily tarnished...

He was reminded of the king's son, clad in gold scale from head to toe, so polished that he was a beacon on the battlefield, blue standard flapping in the heat of battle. The Battle of Pelanor Hill rushed to his memory, a flurry of images. Steel had clamored. Men had cried out in excitement and struggle. The Vanguard had fought bravely, striking hard on the forces of Noxus with precision and strength, and when they had seen Jarvan's flank, the victorious ascent to the top of the Hill, the promise of victory had been sweet.

He must have been lost in the memory, for it took his sister's touch to wake him from it.

"Luxanna," Garen jumped, straightening himself. "Good morning."

The 'good morning' he got in reply surprised him. His sister's voice was always so bright and cheerful, but it seemed somehow forced and diminished. He examined her. She was wearing the armor her father had given to her as a gift, after her return from Noxus. Her clothes were brilliant blue, same as Garen's cape. The light shoulder plates of silver reflected his face back at him as he lowered his gaze to her, slightly obscured by the white lace that trimmed the armor. She was brilliant to look at, but there was a clear slump in her posture, and her held gaze looked somewhat pained.

For a brief, brief instance, Garen thought he saw a flash of something in her face. It was her blue eyes, peering up at him through the strands of hair. They were foreign to him, he realized. 

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

It was gone in an instant. Her posture straightened. Her chin raised. Her mouth smiled warmly, and her eyes closed pleasantly.

"My goodness, your face is all red... and cold!" She put her hand against his red cheek. "I bet you're starving, brother! Let's get some waffles before we meet the ambassador."

Garen raised his thick, gloved hand out towards the yard. He was so much taller than Lux that his arm hung above her.

"Waffles must wait. We are summoned to meet with the Ambassador without delay."

Lux let out a small hum of acceptance as they both made off together towards the gatehouse. As they walked, Garen kept an eye on her sister, now as spritely and good-spirited as ever, although her golden bangs hid her eyes.

It's the boy, he immediately thought. It had only been a few months since her mission to infiltrate Noxus had concluded. Only her and the boy had returned safely, yet multiple attempts on their lives had been made. It could only have been a matter of time before...

They found evidence of a struggle, but no sign of Reginald had been found. Garen had meant to talk to Lux about it, but... well, he could never find the right time or words to talk about it. Now didn't seem appropriate either.

They passed the gatehouse and walked under the portcullis, over the drawbridge and into the outer ward of the palace. They tread the cobblestone eventfully, catching the attention of many passing soldiers and castle attendants. As usual, the celebrity of the two of them combined attracted much attention. He was a celebrated officer of the Vanguard, almost always on patrol or mission in the field. She was a famous mage and scholar. Their different roles had always kept them separated in life, but since Lux's return from Noxus Garen had made a point of spending as much time with her as possible. He owed her that much after all she'd been through...

As he watched Lux stop and greet a small group of her scholarly peers he recalled the Burning Fields west of Noxus, tall grass billowing in the cold wind and pre-dawn. He had watched Katarina's blade pierce his sister's chest. He had cried out in terror and grief, remembering her as a child no more than five, his memory of the last time he had seen her. In that moment he had thought that he would never get the chance to know the woman she had become. But by some magic, she had survived the blow. She was his treasured sister, his only sister. After waving goodbye to the scholars she turned to him.

"You're solemn this morning," she chirped. "Is something wrong?"

"Is there?" he echoed softly under his breath. "No, I was lost in my thoughts."

She giggled. "When did you become the big thinker of the family? Stay focused. We've got to look good for the ambassador."

"That won't be difficult for you," Garen smiled at her, combing his gloved fingers through his matted brown hair. It always fell to the side, stubbornly, but it looked comely so, he had been told. He cracked his neck and watched his sister wince. She didn't like the noise it made. Naturally, that meant it was his duty as a brother to make sure he did it whenever they were together. "How is mother?"  
 "She and a few other delegates are riding south to court with some of the lords in Cinna."

"She didn't happen to say why?"

"Brother, do you think I'd betray the trust of my own mother?" she pushed at his armor. Garen barely budged, so she leaned into him.

He messed the top of her hair. She hated that too, but she always laughed. She liked to hear her laugh. "She didn't tell you why, did she?"

"Of course not. She's the perfect politician. Hey, cut it out!"

The guardsman they had ended up standing in front of coughed into his gauntlet, stifling their foolish laughter. The two of them did their best to resume their proper manners.

"A little early to be drinking, Garen," the guard muttered. His name was Fenton, Garen recalled.

It wasn't uncommon to see Garen laugh in the castle, in fact it was very common, but it certainly wasn't appropriate given the circumstances. He forced his face to harden before giving Fenton an apologetic nod.

As the two of them entered the sitting room, they were greeted by a thin man with a thin face and a thin sword. He glared at them from against the wall, picking at his fingers with a dagger. Garen stopped, turned to the man and approached him arm outstretched.

"You must be the ambassador, I am Garen Crownguard, first officer of the Dauntless Vanguard."

The extended hand went unmet. The man's wispy yellow hair drifted across the sides of his face.

"And I'm the escort. Do I look like a bloody yordle to you?"

"Yordle?" Garen questioned, returning his hand.

"Brother, someone did tell you that the ambassador was from Bandle City, right?" Lux asked, one finger on the tip of her pointed chin. The other hand gestured behind him.

"Ahem."

The voice came from directly behind him, and below him, he realized. Garen turned and looked down at a blue-faced yordle girl, standing no more than three feet tall, leaning on a large warhammer. He must have looked right over her when they entered! She was dressed in yellow and orange plate armor with a head of bright white hair pulled up into two tails. Her face was bulbous, sneering up at him with a grin that pushed at the sides of her cheeks. She spoke with a calm voice, holding back a powerful sarcasm that came crashing down at the end of every sentence.

"You wouldn't by chance be looking for me?"

Garen stared down at her in bewilderment. The woman was a fraction of his size.

"It's rude to stare," she pursed, her eyes narrowing.

The yordle's escort sighed. His leather armor was worn at the fringes and scratched. The make was foreign to Garen. Did this man come from some bordertown?

"That's Poppy. Ah'm Cedric. You'll be accompanying us to Sandor, Mr..."

"Garen. Garen Crownguard." He should the man's hand firmly, causing Cedric to wobble and grunt. He extended his hand hesitantly to Poppy, who looked at his gigantic hand and smirked.

"And I'm Lux," his sister smiled and nodded, not making the mistake to extend her own hand. "I've heard so much about you, ambassador."

"And I you," she replied, surprisingly genial. "Both of you. This'll be an interesting trip."

"Ms. Crownguard," Fenton suddenly stepped into the room and produced an envelope. "New orders from the general."

Lux opened and read the letter. Her immediate reaction was to look at Garen.

"I'm not coming."


	6. Twisted Fate

_What happened to the man that got everything he ever wanted?_

"I don't know, what?"

The ceiling of the old tavern bedroom was dark, musty, wooden boards, but past those and them clouds were nothin' but stars.

"He lived happily ever after, darlin'."

Jeannine turned over, resting her chin on his chest, giving Twisted Fate lonely, puppy-dog eyes. She smiled all the while.

"You love me, don't you?"

"Course I love you," he grinned. "I ain't never been so happy."

"Mmm, your heart is pounding away. Do I make your blood boil?"

He frowned and turned his head to one side. He looked at his jacket and his gun holster and the handle of his six-shooter.

She took hold of the tip of his hat gently and turned his head back. She kissed him. It was just as sweet as before, and she smelled fine.

"I didn't mean to upset you. We shouldn't fight on our honeymoon."

Twisted Fate sat up a bit, scooting her down to his chest. He wrangled his fingers into her curly, unnatural-blonde hair. He chuckled to ease the tension.

"It ain't no honeymoon yet. We gotta get married first."

"Oh yeah," she giggled, too much. She was playful. "We have to make it official, sure."

"And today's the day," he grinned again. "Is it bad luck to see my bride naked before the wedding?"

She was all curled up in sheets as she sat up.

"Not unless I'm wearing my wedding dress."

"You bought a wedding dress?"

He took his chance to make for his things, but she was right after him at the table, carrying the sheets and throwing them around him.

"It isn't much, but I wanted today to be special. Did you find a minister?"

"Not like to find one of those in Zaun," he muttered, dressing in spite of her kissin' and ticklin'. "I got us one better to do the honors."

"Who?"

"An old friend."

He could hear the sound of the cards, flipping between his hands. It was the only sound in the world.

She grabbed his hand. Her voice was happy and scared at the same time.

"It's all a dream, right, Fate? You taking me away from this awful place? Us being together... forever? Is it real?"

"Chh," Twisted Fate laughed and smiled and held her tight again. "Darlin', you and I are gonna walk down those stairs, and later on we'll have ourselves an old-fashioned weddin'. It'll be all romantic. Heck, I suspect there may even be some contention before it's over..."

He pinched her cheeks so she blushed and looked prettier. She lowered her chin and grinned.

"Who would fight over me? I ain't... I'm not worth much."

His fists held her shoulders. His gun holster sang against her hip.

"If I don't have you by my side tonight, if we ain't madly in love with each other, my whole world would fall apart. I ain't been dealt many good hands in life, so I've had to make some... sacrifices. Your my salvation, darlin'. I need you."

"Oh..." she was crying, sure enough. "Twis... Gosh, I don't even know your real name. You never told me your river name. Couldn't you..."

"I'm 'your man'... That's enough." She was his, he knew.

"My man... Yeah. My heart's pounding too."

He looked back up at the stars.

The bar was mostly empty tonight, aside from the barkeep, who'd been paid well enough to know to keep his mouth shut. The handful of folks that didn't get the memo about the wedding were laughing, slack-jawed in the corner. Twisted Fate didn't mind them. He looked around the room. Odd place for a wedding, he realized. None of the tables had even been moved. It might need a little doing up before the time came.

He drew the deck and played the cards for the guest that hadn't arrived.

The cards fluttered across the table meekly, plainly. He thought of the gun at his side. It weren't no magic, no matter how he dealt, they were only cards. Some people might believe he was a magician, even a wizard. It weren't the truth, not yet.

He picked up the cards and dealt again and thought of the river.

The door slammed open. He turned in his chair and drew his six shooter.

Graves, on any other occasion, would be cussing and making a scene, but he was rightly subdued. He closed the door behind himself instead of letting it swing open. And his shotgun was in his hand, not in its holster. Fate didn't need to see his eyes to tell that the man was on pins and needles.

Twisted Fate stood up, lowering his gun.

"Well about time you showed up, minister."

Graves looked up at his old partner, his beard snaked around his face, hiding his frown.

"What the hell kind of chapel is this, you old snake-in-the-grass? You said there was gonna be a wedding!"

"They ain't got chapels in Zaun, you fat marmot. This here's the most beautiful venue they got."

"Ain't that the truth," he finally grinned, moseying over to the card table, circling around Twisted Fate. "You're wearing white now?"

"It's a special occasion, Malcolm."

"Can't get blood out of pure white."

Graves lit a cigar silently and once lit turned it in his teeth. They looked at each other before embracing.

"I'm happy for you, partner," he admitted.

"Hell..." Twisted Fate broke free. "I know you done a lot to get here. Heaven knows what it's cost you..."

"Don't talk about heaven when you're sizzling in hell. She must be one hell of a woman, Fate," he grinned. "She better be."

"See for yerself. 'Here comes the bride'..."

Jeannine had changed into a light blue dress with ruffles on the chest and shoulders. It didn't have a train, but it was lacy all over, and she'd found herself a pearl necklace from someplace.

"Miss..." Malcolm tipped his head politely.

"Ma'am soon enough, Malcolm."

Twisted Fate turned his head from one to the other as they drew closer.

"Hell, you two know each other..."

"He's earned a slap or two from me, that's for sure," Jeannine smirked.

Graves smiled in turn. "She's won a few slaps herself, the tender kind..."

Twisted Fate punched him in the arm.

"That's my wife, you son-of-a-bitch."

"Not until I say so, I reckon. Well, you've got my blessing, I suppose, but apparently I get to say the words."

He was enjoying this. That made Twisted Fate rest easy.

His bride got close between the two of them, putting her hands up.

"I have one rule. No gunfights on my wedding day."

"No promises there, Jeannine," Graves smiled, sitting down at the table to play.

Twisted Fate joined him. In another lifetime, they had been card sharks together, rustling up Noxus, Zaun, Bilgewater, and all the places in between. Graves did it for the money. He did it for the game. It weren't so different now. It was a new game, with higher stakes. He looked at his future bride. This time the bet was his life.

"You haven't been to Zaun for years, Malcolm," Jeannine observed, sitting down at the card table with them. "Where have you been?"

"It's Zaun don't want me, Jeannine."

"I like that you say my name. 'My man' only ever calls me 'darlin''."

"That's because he ain't a gentleman. He's a rotten bastard."

She smiled and held up her cards close to her face. "Guess I shouldn't have fallen in love with him then." She leaned over for a kiss from her fiancé. Twisted Fate obliged, getting a good look at her cards.

"Where'd you get them beautiful pearls?" Graves asked.

She hesitated to reply as she laid down her cards. "They were my mother's pearls. Oh! You both are sorry bastards!"

The two gunmen howled in laughter at the sight of the cards on the table. Both of them had four aces and a king, while she had just one pair of sevens.

"Some things don't change," Graves hit the table.

"Some things have to, partner," Twisted Fate frowned.

Graves pushed his cigar into the ashtray, spinning his yellow fingers.

"So am I praying to your gods or-"

CRASH!

Broken glass flew across the floorboards.

BOOM!

The door spun on one of its hinges.

BOOM!

One after the other, tables went up. Graves cursed. Jeannine screamed. Pearls scattered across the floor. Twenty men, crawling over the place, all dressed fine with their shotguns smoking. Graves and Twisted Fate danced across the floor, fighting for the land, moving between tables. Graves was howling, swearing, taking every man that dared get inside his lethal range. The barkeep had disappeared. The uninvited wedding guests were dead on the floor. Jeannine's blue dress was turning red.

"Malcolm!" Twisted Fate yelled, falling to the ground. His six-shooter clattered against the floor. His old partner rushed to his side, taking a piece of buck in the shoulder.

Twisted Fate looked up at the ceiling. The stars were shining brighter than ever. He could see the light, reaching out for him.

Graves was over him, looking down in cold fury.

"Don't you die on me!"

"Don't you neither."

Grave's face fell at the sight of the six shooter barrel staring him right in the eyes, and behind them, the eyes of fate.


	7. Diana

Diana again lifted her head to the white moon in the darkening-blue sky, extending her hand upward with palm open. She felt its power in motion, waning with its shape, yet growing as night drew nearer. She stared, obsessed, before descending to the safety of the chalk-white rocks where she'd left the Grand Vizier.

"Awaken," she demanded, her long, white band of hair knocking against her armored back. She clutched the Moonsilver Blade, a scythe-like reverse-khopesh, with a harrowing grip and pulled the old man to his feet.

Vizier Devotio was clearly clinging to life, a decrepit shadow of his former self. Diana sneered at his pathetic strength, thinking of the irony of how he had held such a power over her before. This was the last of the Solari, that 'righteous' order who had murdered her people and sentenced her to die. She had destroyed his throne of judgment. Now she would judge him.

"Why not kill me as well?" he had asked weakly while she had dragged him through the doors of the Sun Temple.

"You will bear witness to your own ignorance!" she had shouted at him, the cries of the slain still ringing in her ears.

He had been weeping then, yet he was silent now, and he looked at her with contempt.

"Murderer," he accused, shadows falling across the wrinkles under his eyes and forehead.

"Move," she said without emotion, pushing him harshly. The old man stumbled, glancing at her Moonsilver Blade. It was clean now, but the curved steel had been dripping red with the blood of Diana's former comrades.

As they descended in silence, the smaller mounts of the Rakkoran Towers were laid out before them. The path they followed only Diana knew, across the crack-less surfaces of the mountain face, curving ever further towards the chasmic depths that loomed below. An eagle circled in the abyss, crying out as it soared. The relentless winds of the Great Barrier caused the Vizier's golden garments and white beard to be thrown up around himself. Diana looked back up the mountain, the Sun Temple long since lost from view.

"I am no murderer," she insisted after many minutes of windy silence. "I am the will of the Moon made manifest. I am the avatar of its fury."

"So you say," the man yelled over the wind without turning around. His hands were bound behind his back. "Is that the notion that brought you comfort as you slew your people, even their children?"

Diana could not help but flinch. It had been no easy thing to do. It was the Moon's Vengeance, she thought silently. 

"How many of the Order of the Moon had to die to satisfy the Solari?" she countered.

She said the name of the worshippers of the Sun in a mocking tone, yet it had been her own name once, so long ago now it seemed. All her life she had been fascinated with the Moon and the light it proved during the darkness. If the Sun was a guide for the living why not the Moon also, she thought, innocent of the true history of her people. She had come respectfully unto her elders, proposing her theories, but they would not listen. They would not. They became so sick of her persistence that she was demoted to an acolyte and forbidden for ever speaking of the subject again.

Yet still Diana continued her research unabated. She had lost herself in the Sun Temple's libraries, looking for answers. It was a mystery to her why she felt so compelled, but now she knew why it had felt so necessary. For when she had discovered the location of the Moon Temple and found it a ruin, she had realized the truth. The Solari had once worshipped the Sun _and_ the Moon! It was they who were the heretics, not her! They had been the betrayers...

"Well?" Her teeth tightened at the old man's silence. If he did not speak, would the secret of why her people were massacred die with him?

"There is no Order of the Moon," he finally replied. "And you, Diana, are nothing but a heretic."

She grabbed him, bent him down, and slammed his frail body into the stone. The steel band that curved across her breastplate dug painfully into his chest.

"I stand in evidence to your lies. The Moon's power chose me to live and you to die. This armor is a relic of the people you say never existed! And soon you will see for yourself all the truth that I have found! You will see the truth that I once brought before you all in peace!"

His face was hard, the wisdom once so visible hidden by the anger without.

"The sun's power and glory will burn you, Diana. It will burn you with its light and heat until you return to the cursed dust."

"Save your threats for the afterlife!" Diana yelled, throwing him down so that he rolled down the rock surface until he was motionless in a crumpled heap. She would have been satisfied then if he had died, she thought as she walked over to his body.

"When you die, old man, so too the wicked Solari," she growled, turning him over.

To her surprise, the Vizier laughed, weakly.

"What?" she demanded. "Why are you laughing?"

Vizier Devotio was content to lie there, looking up at her in the dimming afternoon light. He did not move.

"Your murderous efforts have been terrible, Diana, but did you really think that one human could stop the very Sun of this world?"

Diana's eyes shifted back and forth, studying his face.

"Who? Who else is there?"

"The sojourners will find you. They will crush you..." Devotio gritted his teeth as he clutched at her arm.

"Diana!" a female shout rang out across the mountainside.

Diana turned and rose to see the Golden Figure standing upon one of the boulders, red hair flying in the wind, a body-length golden shield resting beside her. The woman was crowned in gold, reflecting what remained of the sunlight in the gathering dusk.

Diana's Moonsilver Blade grated against the granite stone as she rose to meet this survivor.


	8. Cassiopeia

Three pools of fire burned in a sea of stars. Mistress Du Couteau spun her mother's crystal glass, swirling the deep-red wine into a slow, aromatic vortex. It looked black in the dark and like burning blood before the firelight.

Her companions tonight were Jaggho, the dark-skinned second-in-command with jewels embedded in his knuckles, the Dust brothers Torvald and Kevan, both Noxian deserters, The Jackal, a thin-haired rogue with a tendency to snigger through his teeth at everything Cass said, four other Sand Scorpions who only spoke the words of the desert, laughing together, and Sivir, who tonight stared ponderously into the fire, clutching some golden object she'd earned from the battle.

The Battle Mistress still wore her enormous chakram on her back along with her armor. It seemed that the weapon never left her side. Cassiopeia eyed it above the dancing rim of her wine glass. If Sivir noticed her attention she made no sign of it, seemingly lost in the heat and light of the fire.

What did this woman see in the fire? Was she reliving the raid of the caravan? Was she considering the prisoners they had captured, the fools they had slain, or the two travelers who had escaped? Or maybe none of that. Looking closer, Sivir seemed farther gone, and her face looked weaker, more vulnerable. Cass found herself transfixed, wondering what this battle-hardened woman had seen through her rise to power.

After a time, Cass's eyes lowered to the decorated stem of the crystal. Her mother had always reserved it for negotiations, but it had found nightly personal use in the desert whilst Cassiopeia slept beneath the stars. Wine was warming in the night chill and her only friendly company amongst the Sand Scorpions.

Peering at it, she remembered that glass was made of sand. That didn't seem important, yet she let the last drops of red scatter on the dry earth, staining the grains and drying. She was reminded of the islander that had fallen face-first at her camel's feet, scimitar sliding over the hot sand, a spray of blood watering the hungry sand. The lifeless face had bore three rings in his eyebrow.

As Cassiopeia poured herself her third glass, she noticed Jaggho looking at her. It startled her, yet his dark face pierced. Did he understand that her motivations were not true to her words to them? How could he? All these men knew was blood and gold, and she was one woman in a small army of men. What could they suspect?

Nonetheless she turned uncomfortably away, drinking the blood... Wine... Not blood, she reminded herself.

She eventually found herself thinking of her mother, as she so often did. Before Karen Du Couteau had been murdered, she had been one of Noxus's most successful ambassadors, journeying hundreds of miles every month to rally support for Noxian interest. She had also been a proficient mage before marrying Cass's father Marcus, but she had put aside her arcane interests to represent her husband and her country, while at the same time mothering her two daughters. Cass, the younger, had often travelled with her mother, seeing her negotiate, persuade and, occasionally, kill. Cass had always marveled at her mother's magic and envied it, intending to study it herself. She had no interest in weapons, unlike her sister, Katarina.

But those ambitions ended when, on a journey to the river lands of Demacia's Bluewater province, Karen Du Couteau's throat was cut by an unknown assassin. Her intention had been to parlay with the lords who were refusing return passage of General Du Couteau's forces from the neutral swamplands of the north. It had been a harmless endeavor, with no blood spilt on the battlefield, yet Cassiopeia had watched her mother bleed, choking as her lungs filled, her daughter screaming and clutching at the curtains of the tent as Karen had tried to hold her.

The crystal dropped, and the wine soaked into the sand. No one noticed.

A shaking hand lowered to retrieve it. Reddened sand caked its rim.

Cassiopeia's eyes rose. Sivir was gone.

Standing, Noxus's foremost ambassador rose in her mother's place to follow the Sand Scorpion's footsteps in the dark. She looked around at her companions, who only now acknowledged her.

"Delightful company, as always," she muttered. She heard The Jackal snigger. "Good night."

After being well away from the campfire, assured that she was hidden in the darkness, she circled back until she found Sivir's tracks and followed.

In the dark, she felt that there was nothing but sand and stars. Cassiopeia wondered which were more numerous as her silk dress brushed along the cold sand.

The tracks led to the largest of the nearby dunes, up to the top, where Sivir's silhouette was displayed upon the sea of stars. If she had noticed Cassiopeia following her, she didn't show any sign of it. The mysterious woman stared upwards into eternity, hair flying wild in the unrelenting wind of the desert. Cassiopeia knelt on the slope, the sand welcoming and cold between her fingers, as she waited for the woman to move. She didn't. For a long time, the Battle Mistress stood there, head held upward, seemingly lost between two cold and endless oceans.

Cassiopeia, feeling a strong chill, turned longingly back to the three campfires that burned, warmth accompanied by food, wine, and camaraderie, yet the two women remained on the dune, isolated, in the blistering cold of night, both apparently longing for something far too far away to feel any warmth from.


	9. Ezreal

The three-masted carrack was gaining on the old cog.

Ezreal emerged sweating from below deck and grabbed one of the ropes, along with the other four deckhands.

"Pirates..." he muttered. "It had to be pirates..."

"What are pirates doing in Noxian waters?" Francois shouted between pulls, golden curls matted with nervous sweat.

Peter, the forty-something, pale-skinned navigator, didn't respond, whimpering as he wrapped the rope around his soft hands, eyes distant, surely imagining himself safely below deck with his maps.

"Noxus don't scare these pirates," first-mate Manark growled, grinding his yellow teeth together. The beer-fattened seaman's strength made up for Peter's lack of it. "You hear how the _Paingrief_ was sunk by a twenty-gun pirate ship?"

"Twenty guns?" Ezreal couldn't help but exclaim. He looked around the _Revelation_ , with its scant weaponry, two guns (including this one), and a conspicuous absence of firearms.

"Scared, pretty boy?" Manark barked as he yanked at the rope. 

Ezreal's brow lowered. He wasn't scared, especially in comparison to this Zaunite crew, sons of a weak culture so self-centered and amoral that even its sailors were yellow. Manark could see the disdain in his eyes. They let their hatred of each other fester as the cannon rose from the hold.

"Maybe it's a Noxian ship?" red-haired Dante speculated hopefully, loosening his grip on the rope with one hand to adjust his cap.

"That's a pirate ship," Manark confirmed grimly. "And a nau like that'll have at least fifteen guns for sure..."

"Then we're all dead!" Peter wailed hopelessly, his rope going limp. The cannon, nearly above-deck, faltered, as did the remaining crew holding its weight.

"Peter, I'll see you putting your back into that, or I'll stuff you in and use you as ammo, I will!" Captain Sweeney shouted from the helm. "And all of you lot shut up now and follow orders!" He was tall, with a bright-blue uniform befitting his title, and not a bad pilot. In spite of his leadership and his efforts to keep calm for his crew, the distress in his voice was hard to miss.

There was no hope of outrunning three sails with their measly one, Ezreal knew. His heart was pounding in his chest. 

This was supposed to have been the safest route to Shurima from Piltover: get to Zaun, get hired on as a hand for this Kumungu mining expedition, get off in the Yordle territory, find a way through the Voodoo Lands, then the desert... The crew could tell that he was from Piltover, but they didn't ask questions. Money wasn't a problem either, as Ezreal had sewn his fortune into the hems of his clothes. This voyage was should have been the easiest part. Noxian waters were supposed to be safe for Zaunite ships and weren't required to stop at checkpoints and pay tolls like the others.

Running into pirates this close to Noxian shores... It was bad luck.

The cannon landed with a thud on the deck, and the crew let out a collective, nervous sigh.

"You know these pirates don't take prisoners," Peter blubbered as he returned to the false safety of the captain's side.

"Aye," Captain Sweeney nodded, hands gripping the wheel firmly. Nothing else needed to be said on that matter. "Better make the log entry now. Bring it from the hold, Alec."

Ezreal nodded and stepped into the unlocked quarters. It was modestly furnished in blue and yellow like the captain's uniform and smelt of tobacco and salt. A small aft-ward porthole offered a salt-stained view of their pursuer.

The harrowing vessel was getting closer.

"For once, I wish that ship _was_ full of Noxians," Ez muttered to himself, wiping his sweated brow. "Gotta do something."

He emerged with the captain's log. With the cog's two guns in place, the captain kept his ship on a straight course south. Ezreal jumped up the stairs and handed the book to Peter. The pirate ship loomed on the horizon behind them amidst the summer sea.

"Make a note of the day, time and course," the captain began. "Pursued by a large pirate ship. Its appearance matches the description of a vessel called _The Dead Pool_."

At the sound of the ship's name, Peter's hand began to shiver. His calligraphy devolved into illegible squiggles. Ezreal calmly put his hand on the poor man's shoulder and took the quill from his hand. The man swallowed, looked at Ezreal with defeated eyes and disappeared below deck. The captain continued without mention of it, lowering his voice below the hearing of the rest of the crew.

"Our arms being only two bombards and a handful of scabbards, it is impossible to expect survival from a hostile engagement. My intention is to surrender our vessel with no conflict... and..."

"Captain, sir."

"Alec..." the captain swallowed and nodded. "What is it, son?"

"We can't outrun them, sir, but if you pull hard starboard we could outmaneuver them."

The captain finally stirred at this, locking eyes with Ezreal incredulously.

"Are you mad, boy? That'll put us straight in their sights!"

"Better to be in their sights now than right alongside them later, sir, if I may be so bold."

The captain, instead of being offended by the suggestion, licked his lips and faced out ahead to sea, processing Ezreal's idea. Ezreal pressed further.

"They'll turn slower. We could get that much closer to safe waters..."

The captain shook his head faithlessly, sighed, and whistled.

"Mr. Manark!" he shouted. "Have the men toss those guns overboard. The cannonballs too."

"C-captain?" the first mate hesitated, his grizzled demeanor failing. 

"Those are your orders!"

As he watched their only defenses plunge into the briny blue with a heavy splash, the captain muttered to himself.

"All the better at the bottom of the sea than in the hands of scum... Alright, men! Hold on tight and pray to yer mother's gods!"

With a sharp turn of the wheel, the _Revelation_ banked hard right, mast leaning into the sun, and there it was before them: the ominous _Dead Pool_.

"Better pray to the other gods too," Dante added breathlessly, taking off his cap, revealing his messy strings of red hair.

A cacophony of laughter met them as the wind was now at their front. The crew shook as they met a twenty-foot wall of no less than twenty-five guns, manned by a rowdy crew of cutthroats rattling their sabres and waving their pistols.

"Not one pistol to fight with..." Ezreal sighed, looking at the _Revelation_ 's crew. He supposed it wouldn't have made a difference, but he'd always wanted to hold a real gun. "About thirty seconds until cannon-fire, sir."

The captain glanced at him. Perhaps the reality of near-death gave him a moment of clarity. "You're no deckhand are you, boy?"

From the stern of the massive dread emerged a bearded man holding some kind of large crossbow over his shoulder.

"Ahoy, mateys," the pirate captain yelled, raising the weapon. "Prepare to be boarded!"

He lowered the gun with a crash onto a deck-level mount and released a massive, spear-headed harpoon with six hooks. It flew hundreds of feet through the air with a tail of rope whizzing behind it, on course to strike the ship. The crew hit the deck as the _Revelation_ 's topside exploded in shards, leaving a massive hole where they'd been standing.

"It's Captain Gangplank..." Francois quivered along with his rapier.

The bearded captain cackled marvelously as the harpoon's rope tightened, pulling the fleeing cog with a jerk against its course, knocking the crew about and splashing water across the deck. The captain fell and hit his head against the wheel. As the cog knocked loudly against the hull of the _The Dead Pool_ a rope ladder landed with a thud onto the deck, and the crew was forced to climb at threat of gunpoint.

The captain approached them, his boots clumping on the deck, only the sound of the ocean and seabirds interrupted the silence his presence produced. He wore a stylish, brown tri-fold hat and a red jacket with golden trim. His face was hard and grim, yet his eyes betrayed the thrill of adventure and a love for the power he had over them. His hand produced a broad, flintlock pistol, which he spun between two of his fingers as he spoke.

"State ye business in me waters," Gangplank shouted, finally pointing the gun towards them, at Captain Sweeney. "Maybe I'll let ye pass after paying old Gangplank's toll."

"These are Noxian waters," Peter foolishly corrected. 

One gunshot later, and he was on the deck, clinging to his leg in agony. Gangplank reloaded and cocked the pistol again.

"One syllable, one breath, and the next bullet his find its home in that fancy educated brain of yours, landlubber."

Peter grew even paler, maybe even a shade of green, as he lay frozen on the deck in a pool of his blood. The rest of the crew was pushed down to their knees.

Captain Sweeney spoke up, a large splotch of red on his forehead where the wheel had struck him. "We're only a cargo vessel from Zaun, captain, but we've no cargo but general supplies."

The pirate crew erupted into the sound of feigned disappointment. Gangplank bent down calmly to one knee.

"So what yer sayin', _Captain_ ," he grinned a yellow grin, a gleam in his eye. "Is that ye can't afford me toll?"

The salty captain rose again to address his crew.

"Well, we all know the penalty for not payin' the toll!" he shouted over-dramatically, to which his crew responded with hearty laughs and cheers.

Ezreal immediately rose to his feet. Three swords greeted his throat, but he'd already produced the gold coin from within the lining of his shirt hem and was holding it out towards the captain.

"How's this for a toll?"

The pirate turned around slowly at the sound of the boy's voice. His eyes lingered on the Piltover gold, then he looked at Ezreal bemusedly.

"Take it," shouted Ezreal. "It's real, and it's all yours. You can even kill me if you'd like, but then you'd be missing out on the biggest score any of you smelly buccaneers are like to see."

The _Revelation_ crew gaped at Ezreal, then looked back at Gangplank, along with the rest of the pirates, except for those that couldn't take their eyes off the gold coin. Pirates were used to tin and copper, maybe even silver. Gold as pure as this was rare and extraordinarily valuable, enough to pay for the entire journey Ezreal had intended.

The captain clumped up to Ezreal with an unimpressed swagger and snapped the coin from Ezreal's hand, holding it up to his eye in the sunlight. 

"Take this one to my cabin, boys," he smiled grimly. "Throw the rest of the lot in the brig to rot."


	10. Garen

Garen's faced was flushed, his gloved hands pressed into the wooden surface of the table where he'd lain his sword. He watched General Ryan pace in front of him, adorned with the blue and gold decorative armor that Demacian officers wore, lecturing him on his role. Poppy stood in the corner of the office, leaning on the wall and twirling her hammer on the floor as she watched them argue.

"Your concern for your sister is noble, Garen, but she has proved more than capable of handling herself in the past. I can assure you that we have assembled a fine team of soldiers to support her."

"Where are you sending her?"

The yellow-blonde general gave him a knowing glance.

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Who are you sending with her?"

"I can't tell you that either."

"Why are you not sending me?" Garen raised his voice, finally straightening up.

Jepson Ryan picked up his wine glass.

"Ah, now that I can tell you."

He sauntered over to the table normally used for inquisitive purposes. They were in the Grand Tribunal Hall, a stained-glass courtroom where military interrogations took place. Garen had found General Ryan here in the middle of a small inquiry when he had burst in and loudly interrupted it. Ryan chose to postpone the meeting and clear the room. Why Ryan had brought wine with him, Garen didn't know. The general approached him as though it were an inquiry of his own.

"You are a valued asset to the Vanguard, the military and your king, Garen. You are a stellar soldier and an experienced commander, and you have been absent from the field of battle. Granted, we are currently in the midst of an unprecedented ceasefire with Noxus, so it is understandable that you have taken advantage of this opportunity to spend time with your sister."

Garen's face hardened as he anticipated where this conversation was going.

"And as much as Demacia holds family ties in high regard, we did not deem it appropriate for Luxanna to participate in a mission you are more than capable of handling by yourself."

"I am glad that you hold my ability in high regard," Garen grimaced. "However, I understood that my request for Luxanna to accompany me on my mission had been approved."

"It was approved," Ryan smiled briefly. "And I revoked it."

"Why?" Garen couldn't help but growl.

"I don't mean this to offend, Garen, but when I say it has been noted how much time you spend with your sister while on duty it was an expression of caution. Luxanna is not a member of the Vanguard. She is one of Demacia's most powerful mages and part of the Security Brigade. It hardly makes any sense that she should be acting under your command or participating in any missions that do not explicitly require the use of magic. It is time for her to get back into the field with her own order."

This was outrageous. This would have been Lux's first mission since that terrible journey to Noxus, a perfect opportunity for her to get back into the field of duty, with little risk involved. She was still recovering, after all.

"She was only just recently deployed, if you recall," he challenged. "What need is so pressing that you require her during a time of peace?"

The general raised his glass.

"Well, that's classified, remember?"

"Then I would like to request a transfer to accompany Luxanna on her mission, sir."

"Denied. And what of your companion here? Who would I have accompany her?"

Garen glanced at Poppy, realizing for the first time that she was in the room with them.

"Ambassador Poppy is one of Valoran's most prolific negotiators. While this is a time of peace, these borderland disputes with the Rakkor are no less vital to the security of our nation. I would want nothing less than for our finest soldier to accompany and protect her."

Garen, sensing that this conversation was ending, picked up and sheathed his sword.

"If I must speak to the Prince..."

Jepson's eyebrows rose in victory.

"Prince Jarvan is the one, Garen, to ask me to remove Luxanna from your command."

This news shocked Garen, causing his mouth to hang open in an effort to find words. Ryan continued.

"Your urgent mission has been delayed enough. I will be forced to report you, Garen, should you delay further. You have such a spotless record, you know?"

Garen clenched his fists in frustration. General Ryan was not his enemy, and the Prince certainly was not his enemy. He had no choice but to accept a decision that was not his to make. He looked up at the wall of stained glass above Ryan, a blue, yellow and white display of ancient Demacian conquest, the War of the Giants.

"I apologize for raising my voice to you, General Ryan. I accept the will of my Prince. Of course, I will depart without delay with the ambassador."

The general polished off his glass of wine, leaving only a drop of red staining the bottom.

"Very well. You may go."

Poppy followed Garen out of the hall silently, her face not showing any emotional reaction. Cedric was waiting for them, chewing on an apple. He moved his thin hair to one side with a flick of his head.

"Pretty sister not coming? Ow!"

Poppy kicked him in the shin as Garen did his best to suppress a scowl.

"Follow me to the stables," he sighed.

He passed through the halls of the palace, able to navigate it from memory without a thought. His mind could only think on one thing: the fight between Luxanna and Katarina. He could not escape the memory of his sister's apparent death. He had seen many friends and allies fall in battle, but this memory was different. This one filled him with a dread that he could not hold back. The deathrattle of a young, innocent girl and the bloodthirsty screams of an enraged, corrupted woman grabbed his mind and held on with teeth, and no matter what he told himself, no matter what creed or encouragement he summoned, he could not shake the worry that his sister was in terrible peril.

"C'mon, big guy," Poppy finally spoke, nudging him with her tiny blue fist.

Garen was standing next to his white steed, staring through the hay. He quickly spun around, looking for his sister, but of course she was well beyond his sight.


	11. Twisted Fate

"You understand that what we are trying to do is completely reconstruct your physical make-up. This process will cause you pain I could not imagine or explain."

"You do me like you done them animals in yer experiments I read about," Twisted Fate replied, his voice echoing across the laboratory. "I know this'll work."

"This is... different."

"Spare me your fear of repercussions, doc. Ain't nobody comin' for you if something were to happen for me," Twisted Fate sneered, his arms held up by the metal braces across his wrists. "Lest you think I'd be comin' fer you from beyond the grave."

"The thought hadn't escaped me," Dr. Xavier Rath tilted his head. He stomped over from the unwieldy control panel covered in lighted buttons to the medical table where he had laid out a number of medicines. Two of his assistants had already prepared a syringe full of blue-ish liquid for him. The doctor held it above his nose and tapped the plastic with his finger. With a hunched, careful walk, he approached the metal platform on which Twisted Fate was held near-upright, shirtless and shoeless. He'd insisted that no one touch the hat.

Twisted Fate grimaced as the painful needle pierced his bicep, emptying the liquid into him and giving his arm a tingling, uncomfortable sensation. The electrical shock therapy had already irritated him to the point he would gladly shoot every single one of these doctors, having already threatened that he would shoot them, hang them, drag them behind a horse, drown them in a river, and cut off their extremities individually, but it had all been just to blow off the pain. He'd chosen to be here, after all. This was the moment that would change his life forever.

Regardless, the entire present staff was clearly frightened to go anywhere near him now, excluding the patient Dr. Rath.

Twisted Fate looked above him at the looming figure of Dr. Aregor Priggs, the man who had asked him to capture Malcolm Graves, jeweled hands clutching the bars of the platforms hanging above the laboratory. In exchange for betraying his friend, the man had agreed to fund this operation. Among him were numerous colleagues eager to see the result of Rath's newest experiment.

While a doctor in name, Aregor Priggs was one of the wealthiest benefactors of the Zaunite infrastructure, owning hundreds of ships that exported his goods and mined the resource-rich lands south of the Great Barrier. But his wealth was only a fraction of his power. He was a "grower", or "grave farmer" as they called them, pushing his 'New World' bullshit all over Zaun.

Twisted Fate didn't care what they did in Zaun or why they did it. He wanted the thing that he was promised: Magic.

"What's all this song and dance have to do with the procedure, doc? What's science have to do with magic?" he asked the doctor.

"Magic is a science, Mr. Fate. We are preparing your body for cell restructuring," the man replied without turning from his work. Now he was checking his subject's vital signs, running a flashlight over his face and body. "For the pain..."

"Yeah, you've mentioned the pain one million times. I've already been well and tortured already, doc, I think I can handle a little more."

The man paused at this, looking into his subjects eyes and chuckling.

"It is time."

Twisted Fate rustled his lips and looked up at Aregor Priggs again. The deal had been one man for the promise of unlimited power. Fate closed his eyes and tried to focus on the prize. He wanted to know what it felt like, magic pulsing through his veins like the chemicals he was feeling now. His heart rate was rising. His ears were buzzing. He opened his eyes to see Dr. Rath was standing back at the control panel, and the staff were gathered around, some holding medical supplies. He could hear the electrical equipment warming up around him.

He thought of his lucky cards, still resting in his pocket. It was time to toss the dice... This was his only chance.

"Throw the switch, doc."

Something started and the engines in the back hummed. The room was growing brighter, lighting up the faces of Dr. Rath, Dr. Priggs, and everyone else.

The first thing that happened was Fate's heart stopped.

Then his body began to react to the asphyxiation, because his lungs had been paralyzed.

As his jaw clenched, unable to open, his entire, chained body attempted to collapse in on itself while the metal clasps held his limbs back.

Then the beams fired.

Twisted Fate's mouth opened and screamed, first a short, weak one, then successive screams as his lungs gasped for air between every burst of anguish that shot out. He could hear the sizzle of burning flesh. His skin was moving like butter and his hands and feet felt as though they were about to drop off. He'd been stabbed, shot, strangled, but this was like... like...

"You're tearing me!" he screamed like a child. "...Apart! Please, stop! STOP! Ahhhh!"

If anyone in the room responded to his mindless cries, he didn't have the capacity to hear them. The universe was exploding around him. Nothing he saw made sense.

Images were flashing before him. His life, he realized. His brain was panicking, cycling through itself, trying to find a solution. Then he remembered. He remembered shooting his dog, Shepherd, then holding him while he was whining for help, watching him die. It felt like that. It felt like that, only infinitely so. Then he was hearing how his mother had been drowned in the river by one of her lovers. He wanted to kill him, but he got away. He had no power.

Then it was over. The engines hummed into silence and the light diminished.

Twisted Fate gasped, panted, convulsed, vommited, and, crying, fell unconscious.

When he awoke, he felt hazy, sick, and...

Powerless.

"Mr... Fate," a demoralized voice greeted him. "It appears that the experiment was a failure."

Failure.

"No," he responded, struggling to sit up. His body felt like it was made of gelatin. He felt a patch of whiskers come off in his hand when he scratched his face. His blurry eyes flashed around the room. He looked up for Aregor Priggs, but the man and all the other doctors were gone.

"No!" he yelled again.

"Do not sit up," the doctor insisted, his assistants hovering around the table. "You are not well."

He grabbed the doctor by the throat.

"You promised," Fate snarled.

"Help!" the man choked. The assistants began to grab the enraged subject.

"I WANT MY MAGIC!"

"Sedate him! Urk! Sedate!"

"You're all gonna die, now!" Twisted Fate flung the men off of him and looked for his gun. They'd taken it and put it in a cell, he remembered. He looked around again for Rath. The doctor had a syringe of red liquid in hand.

"This experiment is over."

"I betrayed my friend! You promised me!" Twisted Fate howled in rage. "This... was... my... DESTINY!"

Then a wind like a howl filled the room and the electrical lights darkened. Twisted Fate looked up, and a giant, golden eye was hanging above them. It was his eye. It was everywhere.

Then, he could see them all. Every man and woman in Zaun, staring up at the eye of Fate, looking down on them like a god.

Fate's hands buzzed with excitement. His mind raced with knowledge. His heart was bursting with delight.

Then, he saw Malcolm.

In chains, the poor man was locked in a dark cell, darker than night, hidden in the foggy harbor of Axenheim Bay, yet in the light of the vision they could see each other clearly. The man shook in rage, stood up from the stone slab and rattled his bonds. His overgrown beard quivered and spit as he yelled.

"I'm coming for you!" Graves screamed. "You traitorous, murderin' bastard! You'll pay for what you done!"

Twisted Fate backed away from the vision, as the assistants surrounded him in their white coats holding weapons and guns. And in a flurry of colored cards, Fate was gone.

He fell to the ground, dusty cloud of red dirt flying up around him. He coughed and rose to his feet, brushing the dust off of his bare, hairy chest.

He had escaped. He looked around himself. But where was he?

"This ain't Zaun," he realized as he heard the sound of a buzzard's cry. The air was dry and windy. He could feel the altitude were different.

Then he remembered what had happened.

"I had it," he realized, looking at the deck of cards in his left hand. "Power!"

But just as the word escaped his lips, the ground around him burst in a circle of a purplish glow. Looking at his feet, runes were glowing there. Flinching, Twisted Fate realized that he couldn't move.

"You stay where you are!" a scratchy voice yelled out.

Fate turned his head in that direction, his feet locked in place, to see a bald, shirtless man covered in what looked like blue tattoos and a little girl holding a small, stuffed animal clutching at the mage's leg in curiosity and fear.


End file.
